


never after this

by mercuryhatter



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/pseuds/mercuryhatter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Art trade with tumblr user perplexingly: e/R smut based on the poem Catullus 99</p>
            </blockquote>





	never after this

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tumblr user perplexingly](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tumblr+user+perplexingly).



It happened so quick, a violent burst of light, coup de foudre, Grantaire understood the truth of that expression now. Lightning was certainly an apt descriptor for the man-- or possibly the angel, Grantaire still wasn't sure-- who had stricken him down. Slight and slender of build, effete of face, he would seem almost delicate if not for the fire that never seemed to stop burning under his skin, in the lines of his irises, at the corners of his mouth, in the impassioned words he flung at anyone who would listen.

Grantaire wouldn't listen. The words were never for him. Grantaire reasoned that it was hard to listen well when your world was being blown apart by the man holding the words, but maybe he just wasn't trying hard enough.

Enjolras certainly didn't think he was trying hard enough. But that was partly in self-defense; if Enjolras could be so explosive with Grantaire only on his periphery, how damaging would he be if he ever moved into Grantaire's orbit the way Grantaire was already in his? Grantaire was self-destructive, yes, but he preferred to wear himself down slowly, letting the ocean rub down on his sandstone skin. He wasn't prepared to fling himself running off any cliffs, not just yet.

But give him time.

\---

“Grantaire...?”

Grantaire picked his head up with difficulty from its place on the table. He was not drunk tonight, and that was contributing heavily to his apathy; if anyone else’s voice had crafted his name like that he would have pretended to be asleep.

Not this voice. This voice was made of gilt and holy fire, and Grantaire could no more refuse it than he could step out of his own skin.

“Yes, o precious god of the revolution? Stepped out of the heavens to address one whose wings never bothered to grow?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, huffing out a sigh.

“I came to ask if you’d like to go home with me tonight.”

The invitation was stiff, almost formal, but Grantaire’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead and he sat up abruptly.

“And why would you want to ask me that?”

Enjolras seated himself across from Grantaire and leaned forward. Despite the dim lighting, Grantaire felt as if he should be squinting against some sourceless glow.

“This is not easy for me to phrase,” Enjolras said, forming his words carefully. “But it has come to my attention... well, I would like to ask you...” He made a small growling noise in his throat, frustrated, and scrubbed his hands through his curls. Grantaire only barely restrained himself from doing the same.

“Well. It seems to some that I have no interest in sex, and this is largely true... at least, I have not much interest in sex with women, and often I don’t care for the act at all. But I find myself... wanting... and I believe you do too.” Enjolras looked at Grantaire with the same firm, sure expression he wore while orating, though his fingers tapped nervously on the edge of the table, and his eyebrows were raised in a question. Grantaire stared back, utterly nonplussed, and then suddenly angry.

“If this is a joke it is in terrible taste,” he said-- he had meant to snap, but tempered with his sleep-heavy tongue it only came out as a mumble. He made to get up from the table, but Enjolras grabbed his arm, having at least the decency to look abashed.

“No, forgive me, it was not a joke. I am serious, Grantaire.”

“And why not one of your lieutenants, someone you trust and admire-- Courfeyrac, who I am sure has experience with these things, or Combeferre, who is always beside you anyway?” It was hard to speak with the distraction of Enjolras’ hand on Grantaire’s arm, but it was nice to confirm his suspicions about such a touch: Enjolras burned hot, not cold.

“Combeferre does not share my tastes, and it was Courfeyrac who advised me that you might,” he said.

Tastes, like what Enjolras was offering was something trifling. Or... did he really think that a taste was all Grantaire wanted? Could he possibly not know how deep Grantaire’s feelings really ran? Grantaire hadn’t thought he had such skill at hiding them.

Grantaire considered the angel before him for so long that Enjolras dropped his hand and was about to leave, stymied. But Grantaire grabbed his hand, sliding their palms together, and held on.

“I consent to try you,” he murmured, and Enjolras’ lips twisted wryly at the echo of his own words from weeks before. “It is only casual, yes?”

“I--” for a moment Grantaire trembled to his core with hope, before-- “yes. Only casual.”

“Good,” Grantaire replied quietly, after a pause. “All right, then.” He could not tell if he was crushed or relieved; he felt as if he had dodged a bullet, but he couldn’t tell if he wanted the bullet to miss.

Regardless of what the tight knot of muscle inside his chest was doing, he let Enjolras lead him to his rooms, allowing the other man to close and lock the door before Grantaire surged forward and twisted his hand in Enjolras’ hair the way he’d imagined doing for what felt like an age, and oh god this was relief, surging through him then, like he’d been underwater his whole goddamn life before this moment, now his head was breaking the surface and he could not help but gasp into Enjolras’ neck.

Clothes were shed very quickly, although Grantaire’s hands were shaking so badly that Enjolras ended up handling the buttons for both of them.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned, as he laced his fingers into Grantaire’s to hold them steady. “You’re not drunk...”

“No,” Grantaire murmured, squeezing Enjolras’ hands briefly before releasing them to skim over Enjolras’ chest and and hips with a light, reverent touch. “My hands shake because I am far too sober.”

“I enjoy you sober,” Enjolras started, mouthing along the line of Grantaire’s neck, but Grantaire pulled him back by his hair to put a finger to his lips.

“Don’t,” he said warningly, and Enjolras nodded, returning his now silent mouth to Grantaire’s shoulder. His hot hands moved down Grantaire’s back, settling at the base of his spine for a moment before dipping lower to cup his ass tightly, and Grantaire was suddenly compelled to grip Enjolras’ shoulders to keep from falling.

“How do you want me?” he asked weakly, forehead resting on the curve of Enjolras’ shoulder.

“Bed,” Enjolras murmured, guiding Grantaire back before pulling him by the hand to the little room where his bed and a side table were crammed. The bed looked hardly slept in; the table was covered in books and papers, some of which had spilled over onto the mattress. Enjolras pushed them off with one motion before falling into the bed; Grantaire climbed in after him, kneeling over his hips and mapping his chest with starving lips. Underneath him, Enjolras laughed, his hand moving rhythmically through Grantaire’s hair, and Grantaire looked up quickly to catch the bright smile on his lips. He lived for those smiles, to know that he’d been the cause of one was intoxicating.

“How do you want me?” he asked again, looking up through his lashes from his place halfway down Enjolras’ chest. Enjolras’ answer was to push him gently farther down, and Grantaire turned his attentions to Enjolras’ hips, the outsides of his thighs, then the insides. Enjolras laughed again breathlessly, and tugged on Grantaire’s hair in a way that sent shocks of pleasure all the way through him. He muffled a groan in the crease of Enjolras’ leg, which prompted Enjolras to finally stop biting his own lips against any sounds that weren’t laughs. The noises he made were high and almost, but not quite, needy, and his body was twisting impatiently under Grantaire, who smiled into Enjolras’ hip so that the other man could feel the curve of his lips, then moved his mouth over to encompass him.

Things progressed quickly after that, Grantaire’s hands firm on Enjolras’ hips to keep him still, while his own hips twisted and pressed against the sheets. It turned out that Grantaire didn’t need any more attention than that to end up spilling with a groan that vibrated against Enjolras, who tugged urgently on Grantaire’s hair to warn him to move so that he could follow suit. Grantaire moved up to rest at eye level with Enjolras, who was out of breath and smiling, gold ringlets stuck to his forehead.

“Thank you,” he murmured, as Grantaire reached out to brush the hair from his eyes. Grantaire held his gaze for a moment, wide-eyed enough to make Enjolras tilt his head in confusion. Then, seized with sudden purpose, Grantaire pressed forward to kiss Enjolras’ lips.

It was the kind of kiss that held volumes with their locks torn open and pages laid bare. It took all the things that Grantaire was able to hide when his lips were pressed against thighs and chest and neck, and waved them about like flags flagrant against a dawning sky. It stole his breath and poured out his soul; it was dangerous.

That was the cliff, right there. And Grantaire hadn’t just jumped off-- he’d backflipped off of it with a jubilant shout.

Enjolras pulled away, shocked, and Grantaire hit the water with a bone-shattering crash.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, shifting away. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-- I’ll go--”

“Yes,” Enjolras said faintly. “Yes, you should go...”

“Right.” Grantaire tripped over the desk in the other room in his haste to get to his clothes, biting his lip hard. It felt like when he’d kissed Enjolras, he’d consumed a little of his fire, only in him it turned inward and became destruction. Grantaire stumbled out, still buttoning his waistcoat, eyes blurred and burning.

\---

Everything was the same after that, and Grantaire hated it more every passing day. “Enjolras disdains me,” he could now say with absolute conviction, and absolute despair.

He couldn’t know the maelstrom of things stirred up inside of Enjolras. He couldn’t know how, whenever Enjolras’ thoughts strayed from his frenzied planning, they went immediately to Grantaire. He couldn’t know how determined Enjolras was to fix everything, after.

The trouble was, there would be no after.

Grantaire, shoving past soldiers and taking his place next to Enjolras, looked first at his eyes, then at his lips.

“Permets-tu?” His voice was hoarse and dry, and terrified of denial.

But Enjolras smiled then, and their palms slid together, and for the briefest moment Grantaire thought of asking him to permit something else, if these were their last moments, if that smile meant what he thought it could mean...

But “nunquam iam posthac basia surripiam,” he thought, “jamais plus je ne te ravirai de baisers,” “never will I after this steal a kiss.”

Grantaire, foudroyé, fell at Enjolras’ feet.


End file.
